


The Host's Revenge

by Xanthias_Reavik



Category: Video Blogging RPF, WKM - Fandom, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23908036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanthias_Reavik/pseuds/Xanthias_Reavik
Summary: My Host has been through /quite a bit/ in the Saturn AU. ...and he's decided he's had enough.
Relationships: Darkiplier x Host
Comments: 22
Kudos: 11





	1. Reincarnation

**Author's Note:**

> (There is nothing immediate in the first chapter... however, there will, indeed, be some very graphic violence once I add the second chapter.)

The Host had suffered quite a lot of trauma in recent months. He had fallen in love, stolen a name from some poor sod, and found himself given hope… only to find it all dashed away. Host had, in his heartache and jealousy, first made the terrible mistake of attacking Dark’s lover, Xanthias… but seeing Dark in pain, even the Host himself could not sustain such behavior. He had given in to his own heart, submitted to Dark’s chosen punishment: separation, isolation. The Host had endured this punishment willingly for his trespass, for the pain he had caused Dark. He had forced himself to stop narrating in attempt to better himself for Dark, during that time, and had nearly lost his mind doing so.

Then, rather unexpectedly, Dark had shown /mercy/. …had… pulled the Host back into his arms, once more, as his lover. Host had accepted this with gratitude beyond words, and had devoted himself to gentle, proper, unconditional love without control. He’d thought that would be the end of it. …he was wrong.

Dark, his Thorned Rose, his love, had crushed his heart and left him without explanation. Tricked, the Host had learned after, by another of his several lovers – though unintentionally, as Anti hadn’t meant to /trick/ Dark so much as look after his health – into leaving the Host and several others. The Host had not blamed Dark, then. It was Dark’s way, to break off ties wordlessly, to save as much pain as possible. No, he had not blamed Dark, but he had become uncertain and pained – and he knew, as Dark returned only to come back and beg forgiveness, to promise Host he would never hurt him again – he knew that he could no longer love blindly.

So the Host had narrated. He had narrated and learned of the ones known as “puppets”, who Wilford referred to as “muns”; and he had learned of his future, of Dark’s inevitable leaving once more and finally. Despite this, he had hoped… he had /hoped/ that Dark would stay.

That hope was futile.

Dark came to him as the Host had laid, dying and withered, to inform him that Dark had decided on monogamy with his husband, Xanthias.

The Host had /writhed/, /agonized/ and broken, on that couch. He had cried for days, blood and tears and ink all, as Dr. Iplier finally gathered the last ingredient to make his cure for the Fallen Grief.

Now he stood. Cured. Stronger than ever before, restored to his proper Creation Angel status. He stood upon the roof of the Void Estate, with black, gold and white wings spread /high/ into the air, head held high with his blindfold still on. He knew once he removed it he would see the world again. He knew he was no longer Host… but nor was he simply the Author.

No, no. …he needed a /proper/ name. His /own/ name. He had not been reborn. He was / **undead/,** **returned** from the abyss Dark had left his heart shattered within. Host had mastered that darkness, made it his own, made it a / **part/** of himself.

Now he aimed to show / **everyone/** just what this darkness inside of him felt like. Indeed, he _aimed_ to show the world what it meant to know / **true/** _pain_.

He remembered now, idly, how one such puppet – who referred to herself as “M” – had tried to offer comfort in the form of an embrace. He remembered what he himself had said in return.

“...why should I let you / **touch** / me? You, who control him? Do you think I am unaware of you? Of my / **own** / puppet? Of the world beyond? ...do you think I do not know what was decided, didn't / **know** / he would **destroy** me? No, M. I / **knew** / as he came with his promises, as he left and I uttered narrations... I knew, and still I hoped. ...and you believe I could use **comfort** , from **you** who did this to us? ...no, no. ...I punish him to punish /you/, M, and I punish him to punish /Jade/.” …and punish Jade he would, above all others. He would /delight/ in watching her /writhe/ for all that she had wrought with her control of Xanthias, and her indirect control over his Rose. He would punish himself, as well, for daring to hope. After all, he had long known better.

No, no. None of them would receive / **anything/** from / **Host/**.

The puppets had done this. They had / _stolen_ / what was / **his/**. They had made him love, and they had taken Dark from him, and they had broken he and Dark both… as though they were the puppets’ / **playthings/**. ...and he would show them / **consequence/**. Of course, the puppet known as M had given very well-chosen words in response to these thoughts of his.

“We know consequence, Host. Not on the same scale, perhaps. But these decisions hurt us to make, and to carry out. And both of us have known hurt in our lives, some of it very similar. You don't deserve punishment, and I am not asking you for anything. I am trying to help. But refuse it if you will. ...She and I did this, yes. I do hope it pleases you that you're about to become the same.”

Well-chosen words, indeed, had the Host been anyone else. He continued the conversation from the night before in his head, remembering his response, remembering his hollow voice turning into a bellow and how he shook in his rage:

“I do not care what I become. ...that's the difference, my dear. ...you ripped my **heart** from me, you - you **took** him from me. He was my **HEART**. HE WAS MY **ROSE** , AND YOU **TOOK HIM AWAY** , AND YOU **BROKE HIS MIND** LIKE A **TOY** _._ ...and I will destroy **everything** you god damned love. I will pay you **back**. I will **be** the monster I was **born** to be, and your words will **_not_ save _you_**. ... **all** of you will pay. ...every single one who contributed to his pain. ...every single **one**. ...and he will hurt. ...yes. ...he will know pain. ...but he is /more/ than used to / _that_ /, I'm sure. ...he'll cling to his / **precious/** little / **wraith/**. ...and he will recover. ...but the rest of you? ...no, no. ...my dear, I am only just / **beginning/**.”

He needed a name, first, and he knew exactly which one he desired. So he untied his bandages for the first time in / _ages_ **/** , and he spoke as the sun brought his golden irises to life.

“ **My name is Nero**.”

“An excellent name.” The voice came from behind him, but he did not startle, even as the Actor placed his hand upon Nero’s shoulder with a firm squeeze. The man had accompanied him here, after all. “You’ll need strength for what’s coming.”

“I have no doubt, Mark. You’ll need just as much, seeing as “Sammael” decided to chain and /preserve/ the Entity Dark thought destroyed.”

“I’ve grown used to being the villain, Hos- …Nero. It became clear long ago that Dark is the favorite. …is it solely vengeance you seek?”

“Vengeance alone is enough for me. …we begin first with Dark’s chosen child. The innocent, known as Ash. This will help me embrace my role, and allow me to stretch the equivalent of my atrophied muscles.”

“Very well. You know the names: Eric, the twin Jims, Marvin, and Anti. You know who to pursue. In the meantime, I will work on keeping Sammael off your tail and begin the process of retaking the Entity.” Mark gave a / **terrible** / smile, then, as Nero spread his wings and took flight. “Good luck~.”


	2. Nero's Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero tests his ability to control Anti... and Anti goes to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far watered down from what I had planned, but I'm not in that mode right now. Still, there is gore here. Be advised.

Nero had spent /quite/ some time tracking down the twins. The Jims were on the move quite often, but even they could not outrun him. Just as Marvin and Eric had before them, they fell unconscious to his narrations. Some gave more fight than others. He cared little. This was not a personal task, and they stood no chance against him.

To see them here in his old cabin, tied to chairs before him not by rope but by sheer /narration/… well. It brought back an old, welcome rush. They were slaved to his words… as was Anti, who stood beside him with an empty, /terrible/ smile on his face and deadened eyes.

“The captives awoke in the Host’s cabin, bound tight by unseen force and unable to move even the slightest muscle below their necks. Unfortunately, Marvin found he could not speak, nor could he access any of his magic.” Obediently, Marvin, Eric and the twins all opened their eyes, each of them showing different reactions to the knowledge of where they were and of who had captured them. Nero did not care about how they felt, and so he did not watch to find out whether they felt fear or anger. He settled his eyes on Anti, and as he did, a gold wisp of color twined through Anti’s neon green irises.

“Anti began his assigned task, slaved entirely to Nero’s will and completely unable to resist.”

So Anti did. He took out his own personal, favored switchblade and flipped it open, golden strings tied about every part of his body as he did, and he moved – first to Marvin. The most problematic one, as a Septic. Anti took hold of Marvin’s hair, then, forcing his head still as Anti’s deadened smile remained. The neon in Anti’s eyes swirled, some silenced defiance screaming in the color, but he could do nothing as he plunged his knife /deep/ into the spot in Marvin’s left temple, angled /just/ right.

Marvin was the first to fall limp… and with him, Anti fell into his own limpness. Screaming, somewhere in his head – drowned out only by the distressed, terrified shouts of those captives still alive. Their weeping and protests and swears of vengeance fell on deaf ears. Anti cared nothing for them. Anti cared only that he had become a puppet again, that he was being /used/ to take people out of the picture, that he was a slave to others’ wishes… all **over** again.

“Come now, Anti. Dark does not love you anymore. What is life without your counterpart, the calm to your storm? Remember who took him from you. Remember whose shoulders the blame falls upon, because it is they we will hurt. Together.”

At this, a cold… **calmness,** settled through the glitch. Was Nero not, himself, slaved to the puppets? Anti’s resistance shifted, settled, shifted again… until at last, just as Nero planned, it fell still with Anti’s rage /directed/ at the puppets. The process would have seemed almost too quick, had Nero not spent his entire flight to find Anti /narrating/ a boiling, /powerful/ unrest within the demon.

So as Anti /ripped/ his knife free of Marvin’s head, Nero gave only his own empty smile, waiting. Anti moved, then, to Eric. An innocent. No torture here either. He pulled Eric’s head to his chest, giving a cold, terrible laugh akin to what his old self would have done before plunging the knife into the base of Eric’s skull and /twisting/. He held Eric there until he fell still. Just as Nero was flexing the muscles of his narrative power, Anti, too, though against his will, was stretching the familiar movements of killing.

So Anti’s eyes fell upon the twins, who spat broken curses through their tears and their rage, and he felt nothing as Nero pulled the chairs the twins sat upon apart. The two would watch each other, in their dying moments. …they would feel pain, and Nero would stretch how far his control over Anti went.

So he did. Mumbling soft narrations to monitor, Nero left Anti to himself as the glitch pulled his knife free of Eric’s head and moved to RJ. He tilted his head, smile stretching wide as he did, before /shoving/ the knife under RJ’s index fingernail and /prying it off/, slowly, /forcefully/, ignoring every broken /scream/ RJ gave. Ignoring, as well, the retching sounds coming from CJ, stuck watching as one by one by one, Anti removed every fingernail from RJ.

He spent the next several minutes “declawing” CJ as well. Then he turned to RJ once more as Nero’s narrations forced RJ’s mouth open, and Anti plunged his knife into RJ’s mouth. One. By one. By one. /Forcefully/, /cruelly/ removing RJ’s teeth with sawing, inhuman motions and severing nerves and gashing open RJ’s gums. Anti spilled blood /everywhere/ on his hands and down RJ’s front, but he did not stop. He only kept that manic, dead, empty smile on his face, never reaching his eyes, which swirled with green and gold.

Just as before, when he finally finished, he did the same to CJ. Declawed and defanged, so to speak – helpless before him.

…and now he could truly begin.


	3. Pity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Host's shattered humanity shows its head... but not as one might hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short. ...I know. ...but all who have any attachment to my Anti know why this is more than enough all on its own, for now.

Anti had spent long, agonizing hours doing as he hadn’t done in /years/. Nero had, indeed, tested Anti’s limits… too strongly, in fact. He hadn’t realized that he had /far/ overpowered Anti. Just as the puppets had done to his Rose, to Dark… Nero had /traumatized/ Anti, forcing him to skin innocent men alive, to burn them with chemicals, to dig their eyes from their skulls… and more. Even in his current state of mind, Host had meant to show mercy and ruthlessness in balance – taking out his biggest immediate threat and the weakest of will first. The rest was… meant to be an /exercise/ in control over Anti. He expected Anti to break /free/ at any moment, but … that moment never came.

He had not intended to destroy Anti’s sanity.

It did not matter now. He narrated the skinned corpses of the twins away, along with the others and the gory, bloody mess all over the floor and furniture and Anti himself. The glitch’s resistance was gone. Shattered entirely. His rage and restlessness, though, were things Nero had hoped to /use/, and now they too were broken.

There was nothing left in the demon but a broken apathy, a muted, deadened sense of awareness. So Nero moved to Anti and took his switchblade from his hand, closing it and placing it back in Anti’s pocket for him. He pressed Anti gently to the chair where Marvin had sat moments ago, and he whispered his words softly before kissing Anti on the forehead.

“Anti’s heart and mind slipped into a quiet death, beating softly into unconsciousness before death. He felt no pain, and he knew no trauma… only dreams of his happier past with Dark, and of his present with Google.”

So it was. No tears fell from Nero’s eyes. The casualty was a shame, but he had more to do. Nero left Anti’s corpse there in his cabin, rather than narrating it away. Something about the whole thing tugged at his sentimentality.

This did not stop him. He knew his power now. Anti’s /utter/ helplessness against him had been a good measure. …and now, he knew… it was Sammael’s turn.

He would rejoin the Actor and put an end to all of them. He would rid himself of all opposition which had even the /slightest/ chance of stopping him. …and then he could focus on his true target. The /identity/ himself.

**Xanthias.**


	4. Sammael's Terrible Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Host bit off a /little/ more than he could chew. Seems Sammael was a /bit/ more reluctant to give up his power than everyone in the estate thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to go a different direction with this, but it wasn't getting written that way. So enjoy this instead. Even /I/ don't know where it's going.

It took Nero very little time to find the Actor as he narrated himself back to Mark’s side. He found himself in Sammael’s /office/, of all places. …it seemed Sammael himself had fallen unconscious in his chair – and by the look of it, in no short part due to his drinking problem. Nero said nothing as Mark smirked and twirled Sammael’s cane in his hand before opening the gem at the top to pull out a /very/ familiar elixir.

“Restrain “Dark”, would you, Host? I just need a /moment/.”

“Sammael’s body became bound in place to the chair, and Sammael would find – if he woke – that he could not move from his position.”

“Excellent.” Mark, then, opened the tiny bottle of /poison/ made from Sammael’s own blood… and shortly opened Sammael’s mouth and poured it in. Sammael’s eyes /shot/ open, then, and he tried to whip out of his chair, retching uselessly as Mark gripped him by the chin – smiling, all the while. “Now, now, “Dark”. …we can’t have you dying just yet, can we?”

With those words spoken, Mark /thwacked/ the cane across Sammael’s head, knocking him unconscious again as black smoke began to /seep/ out of Sammael’s mouth, nose and eyes …but then those eyes opened again.

Black as ink.

“Hello again, **Mark**.” The voice which came was not Sammael’s own, and it caused Mark to shudder. It was in this moment that Nero became aware of Mark’s lack of knowledge… because even /he/ had not predicted that the man who once contained the majority of the Entity would /underestimate/ the beast Sammael had been not just containing privately… but /nurturing/. His blood ran cold, then, as Sammael stood with ease from the chair.

“The creature known as Entity did not move…!” Nero’s voice came quick, desperate. …but Sammael only laughed, the not-his voice /purring/.

“You cannot control me, little **boy**.” Then tendrils shot forth. Mark was impaled and falling dead – the Entity /itself/ absorbing anything of itself possibly left behind.

…and Nero found himself suspended in the air by his throat as the Entity /laughed/ through Sammael’s lips.

“See that, Host? …that’s what happens when I deem you **useless** to me. …now, **_you_** … **you** have a **bit** more _promise_ than that **pathetic** , meek little **has** -been. …so what do you say~?”

Nero had no chance to refuse.

Tendrils were /shoving down his throat/ and he couldn’t breathe, and there was an ink-like /blackness/ spreading through his mind like a /corruption/ - and then… there was nothing.

Nero crumpled to the ground, unconscious while “Dark” and the Entity laughed as one.


	5. Revenge Is A Dish...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero delivers his first true piece of vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: a lot has been going on behind the scenes. For those not in the know: Arturis, the "Other Host", belongs to the other mun whom my Host is striking out against.

Dreams were a funny thing. Dreams could change a man’s entire perspective or leave him broken entirely, only to be forgotten not moments after waking.

Nero’s dreams had haunted him for most of his life. Here, now, the word ‘nightmare’ took on a different meaning. Unconscious, he was left to fight for control over his body against this… twin /half/ of the Entity. He knew this. His narrations had told him as much.

He found himself entirely grateful that he had spent so many long, broken nights learning to narrate in his unconscious mind to control his nightmares, learned to force his dreams to his own will. …because now he stood here, in some empty space in his mind’s eye, facing this… /mass/ of darkness, of smoke, of black slime. Its eyes fell on him, crimson and flaring just as Sammael’s did. …but hubris always /had/ been Sammael’s greatest flaw.

Nero felt no surprise, the twin suns of his irises blaring in the darkness in perfect opposition to the shadows he stood against. He felt only cold, unbridled rage, and a brewing satisfaction deep within him… because here, **_he_** was in control. Here, **_he_** was the stronger one… and now Sammael would learn the price of splitting his power in half so readily.

“I know you, Sammael. …I know the Entity is you as much as you are it, I know your souls merged in your century twined together. I know you've been lying to /everyone/ letting us all believe the Entity long dead, I know you kept it alive for its power. I know you feel no love in your heart, and I know you are using the Other Host – Arturis – for his power. You are no better than the puppets who use us as toys.” He was met with laughter, which he knew was meant to cover the surprise at his free will. He cared not. He waited no longer. “The second half of the Entity fell to Nero’s whims, broken and dead and useless, unable to ever rejoin its other half.”

He did not stop speaking, even as his words began to prove themselves true.

“It died permanently, with no way to resurrect or regenerate, with no one to possess, nothing but broken and alone as it always was, a tortured and depraved little pestilent, useless creature.” …and so it fell. It fell to the ground in Nero’s head, shriveling like some strange dried fruit, withering entirely away to /nothingness/.

“Nero woke up armed properly.”

And so he did. He snapped open his eyes and stood, facing Sammael, who stood with fury and shock in his abyssal eyes. Nero only smiled, then.

“The second half of the Entity – ” Sammael moved to stop Nero, unleashed tendrils to choke his words off, meaning to snap his neck, to choke, to cover his mouth and nose, anything – anything anything – but Nero caught those tendrils with tendrils of his /own/, dripping of ink rather than sheer darkness. Nero only smirked and continued, catching Sammael’s fists with his own, forced onto the balls of his feet under his toes – digging the front of his shoes against the ground as he spoke. “ – died as the first half did, leaving Sammael nothing but his own, pathetic soul within the corpse he called home.”

And so it was. Shadows and darkness began to /spew/ forth from Sammael’s orifices, and even his very /tendrils/ melted away in mid-air – until all that was left on the ground was a single smoldering flame of black… which shortly snuffed itself out. …and Sammael stood with clear, crimson eyes. Naught but the demon he was. No help. No entity.

“You have been in my way for /quite/ some time, Sammael. …and you know… I may have some issues with Arturis. …but let me tell you something.” Nero’s voice turned cold as his tendrils whipped around Sammael’s arms and shoved them behind his back. “No man deserves to be used for nothing. I know you never loved him, and I know that you think you do. What a shame, then, that anyone with half a mind can see that your love is not love – but /obsession/.” Another inky tendril wrapped around Sammael’s mouth, preventing him from speaking.

“Tell me, Sammael. Were Arturis to lose his pretty golden eyes, would you love him? Would you love him with nothing but eye sockets? How about if he couldn’t narrate, if he couldn’t write – if he were both blind /and/ mute, and he had access to none of his power. Would you love your “solar flare” without his flare? Without his fire? Would you love him if he was suddenly not a /Host/ instance? …or are you simply obsessed with the color of his eyes and his smile? Are you simply obsessed with owning the one man who can stand against you? Would you love him if his smile faded and that streak in his hair turned gray?”

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to answer. I /know/ the truth, Sammael. I have /seen/ your mind, and your heart holds no emotion. …you loved with your senses and your desire for control, not your heart. …and so I will take your senses from you, until you learn to love without them.” Sammael’s eyes widened then, and he began to /scream/ into the tendril. …but Nero only used the opportunity to /shove/ his tendril within Sammael’s mouth, to /grip/ Sammael’s tongue and /splice it off/. He ripped the severed organ out, throwing it to the floor as Sammael’s scream and his / **ringing** / pierced the air.

Nero did not stop. His tendrils /pierced/ into Sammael’s ears and broke his eardrums and through into his brain, following mental narrations in Nero’s head to only affect certain parts of the parietal lobe which controlled sensory ability. He plunged more tendrils into Sammael’s eyes and /ripped them out/ before stepping away, his mental narrations blocking off Sammael’s sense of smell. He left him /only/ his sense of touch and taste… and that decision, indeed, was a /merciful/ one.

“The mess dissolved to nothing, as if never existing, and Sammael’s body healed as if this were his natural state – unable to be affected by anything other than /Nero’s/ own narrations. There would be no mess or maintenance, as Sammael was a lonely man with no one to properly /care/ for him.”

…and so it was, as Sammael was left crying uselessly on his knees on the floor. Nero left the office satisfied, knowing that not two floors away, in the living room, Xanthias sat sketching some arbitrary picture.

The time had come.


	6. "Too Much."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Xanthias deals with Malik leaving him while Nero comes ever closer to his final vengeance.

Xanthias, indeed, had been sketching some “arbitrary” picture. He sat on the floor of the living room of the Estate, unable to /go/ anywhere. …everywhere he looked were memories of Malik. The other puppet’s Dark. The one he /loved/.

Ugly, massive scars remained from his actions taken to honor Malik’s wish to separate; forming a square, jagged /splotch/ on the side of his neck; a long, rectangular, jagged splotch on his left pectoral muscle over his heart; and a jagged bracelet around his wrist. …Reminders of Malik’s Brand mark, of Xanthias’s tribute Rose tattoo, and the Shadow Link itself.

He felt naked, without the marks. Malik’s brand had touched Xanthias’s neck with Malik’s aura – the tattoo had … had been an expression, he’d thought, of his love… and the link…

_The Shadow Link had connected their very **minds**._

Now Xanthias sat, stripped of all connection to Malik but his wedding ring. …they had been officiated by Life and Death themselves. They had loved. He… he thought they had. He had thrown his life away, twined his soul with Malik’s to ensure Malik would live. He had rent the planet /itself/ to bring Malik back from death, he had … …he had given up his very **_dreams_** for Malik. …all he had wanted in return was… …was for Malik to keep his vows. …was for Malik to /love/ him.

“Too much,” Malik had said. “I never wanted you to die for me. ....Things change, Xanthias, and not all promises are able to be kept. I have broken many, recently, for you, and I've broken myself in the process. ....Now I must break this one, if I'm to have any hope of fixing myself.”

All Xanthias had ever wanted from Malik was his love. ...and here he found himself, with Malik breaking his vows, with Malik ripping his heart from his chest… because… because Xanthias’s love was “too much”. His lip trembled, but he /bit/ it still, sniffling, trying not to break.

“I love you.” Malik’s voice played back in his head, then, from another time… and a severe pang of / **pain** / shot through his chest at the reminder that he was / ** _alone_** /, and he let out a whimper, his blackened eyes as abyssal as Malik’s own – before re-focusing on his drawing.

…He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t finish it. He couldn’t **_bear_** to see Malik’s face again. Tears, black and tainted, fell to the paper, leaving their ink-like watercolor stain as Xanthias curled around the drawing pad and held it tight. Finished, save for Malik’s eyes. He curled around it and he / ** _wept_** /. This was the human’s fault. This was **_Trent’s_** fault.

Xanthias’s own puppet, own “mun”, had unshelved the altruistic little shit and the first fucking thing he decided to do was /destroy/ what Xanthias had. Xanthias had known it was coming – the two were separate halves, separate /pieces/ of the same god damned soul. …and if Xanthias was anything when alone, he was /destructive/. …of course, lonely little Trent had destroyed himself the only way he knew how. Of course he had fucking spoken like a snake in Malik’s ear and of /course/ Malik had listened, and of /course/ Xanthias had proven Trent right.

Luciferian love would always seem like obsession to those who didn’t fucking understand it. …Trent had gone to Malik and claimed Xanthias obsessed, rather than in love – claimed Xanthias would attack him, claimed it a sign of obsession and the lack of love therein. Xanthias’s rightful vengeance, then, became a no-win scenario. If he killed Trent, he proved Trent right and destroyed his only… /any/ possible chance to have Malik again. …and if he let Trent live… he betrayed himself as a Luciferian, and allowed the man to destroy his marriage and get away with one of the most severe trespasses one could ever pull: sabotaging one’s relations with loved ones. …Trent had gone and shoved Xanthias straight into the one fucking scenario where choosing himself first would destroy any chance at romance… and where choosing romance denied and spat on one of the most /core/ beliefs in Xanthias as a person.

So now Xanthias clung to his drawing pad, swinging between soft tears and near-manic laughter.

Nero did not care.

He came to Xanthias without hesitation, stepping down the stairs. Nero was, in his mind, the one destined to punish the puppets… so it only came naturally that he would do this, that he would end the very life of his own puppet’s most treasured “muse”.

After all… Xanthias deserved this death.


	7. Bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality comes crashing in.

Nero’s sweeping stride brought him to stand over Xanthias. Xanthias did not move, did not try to defend himself as Nero bent and grabbed him by his hoodie before bringing Xanthias to a standing position. Xanthias only stared at him with those voids in his eye sockets, his tears still sliding down his cheeks. Nero furrowed his brow, growling softly.

“Where is your defiance, wraith? Your chaos, your strategy? Where is your fight?” Xanthias did not respond. His head lulled back as he laughed. Nero growled. “What is this?”

“Have you come to end me, Nero?” Xanthias’s deadened, broken tone almost hinted at amusement. “Am I supposed to fight you?”

“You are hardly to go without a fight. That’s undignified for you and you know it.” Nero’s words dripped with annoyance, with impatience. Xanthias did not care.

“Such a shame that I won’t be helping to fulfill your little _god_ complex, Nero. …if you want to take my life, take it and know that you gave me nothing but a temporary mercy.”

“ _Mercy_?” Nero’s voice came a snarl, but Xanthias only gave a strange, desperate, shattered laugh.

“I am a god, Nero. …I can’t die. You may kill this mortal form, but my soul will only form again in a new body. …your quest is futile, Nero, and I’ve got news for you: all your effort thus far was as fruitless as my own heartbeat. You struggle against puppets whom you know even I cannot truly affect. They are the True Gods of the world we reside in. We are only **pieces** of their lives. Your rage, your lashing and struggling… it’s god damned pointless. …so strike me as you will. Only they will decide how it affects me.”

Nero **did** strike him. He swatted Xanthias so hard across the face as he released him that the blow /threw/ Xanthias to the ground. …but though Xanthias yelped as he was struck, once he landed… he only laughed more, even as he held his cheek at the point of impact.

“Feel big and strong yet, Nero? Feel powerful, feel better? …do you feel like you’ve gotten anywhere at /all/? Your precious vengeance could be undone with nothing more than their words. …we are characters to them just as others are to you. …the difference is that their power is unstoppable and unmatched, to our kind. You are nothing but a **fly,** bashing its body against a window – a nuisance at most. Every step you have taken has been **allowed** , **_humored_**. …for the story, just as you yourself would do. For the _entertainment_ of themselves and other puppets.”

“And what am I to do then, Xanthias?” Venom permeated every word. “Accept my fate?”

“Exactly that, you Nidhogg bastard. Exactly that.” The words left Nero tense.

Yet, he could not speak against them. Deep, somewhere inside… he knew the truth of them. He took a breath, then, before growling low in his throat. He would have /something/ from Xanthias, _some_ payment, whether it lasted or not.

“Xanthias found his voice stolen from him, just as his favorite villain did to the mermaid Ariel. He would not speak again until he knew genuine love without the work of his precious silver tongue there to deceive.”

…and so it was.

…and Nero, with his wings lowered, heart shattered and pride wounded, mulled over the truths he had been told as he left the Estate… for, indeed… some pains were inescapable. Sometimes fate could not be bested. …sometimes one had to learn to live side by side with darkness.

Some victories were lackluster and disappointing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, it’s shorter than I wanted.
> 
> ...the whole fic’s not nearly as powerful as I was going to aim for.
> 
> ...but my mind’s been hell lately. You get what you get.


End file.
